Black Panther
by Haladflire65
Summary: Bruce Wayne and Jim Gordon, a part of the Gotham Police Department, spend their nights capturing dangerous criminals, hoping to set their city right... An AU take on Batman Begins.
1. Prologue

Summary: Bruce Wayne chooses a very different path from what we know he became in _Batman Begins_... When he returns to Gotham he becomes a greatly feared and respected Gotham City cop, working alongside James Gordon. Not one criminal has yet escaped the hands of Bruce "Black Panther" Wayne and Jim Gordon, but there are always firsts... An AU take on BB, featuring a completely new, and original, story and situations.

Rating: T for violence, some language, and darkness.

Notes: This story begins after Bruce escapes from Ra's al Ghul's monastry. You'll recognize the dialogue near the end of the chapter from the movie. I referred to the novelization by Dennis O'Neil when writing this. Just to let you know that I didn't make that part up. And as for Bruce becoming a cop... I know it sounds kooky but I hope it isn't as silly as the story progresses.

Disclaimer: I don't own the _Batman Begins_ universe or any of its characters, places, or things.

**Black Panther**

_A Batman Begins fanfic by Haladflire65_

_**Prologue**_

"_**Are there any cops in the world that can't be bought? I want to be one of them."**_

"What's your name?" The young cop gave a handcuffed Bruce Wayne a nudge with his toe. Bruce felt anger flare up from within him but gave no response. He spat out blood to one side and glared up at the policeman.

"I don't wish to tell you my name." Bruce said in English.

"Fool," sneered the cop. "We'll find out soon enough." He nodded to his men. "Take him away."

The others dragged Bruce up to his feet and roughly tossed him into the back of their truck. He was left in the darkness when the men slammed the door shut. Apparently he was alone - no criminals today, it seemed.

Bruce closed his eyes and leaned back against the wall of the truck. The vehicle began to movie; he had no idea where these so-called police were taking him. It no longer mattered, really. He had been a fool. Since he had escaped from the monastary he had nothing to eat. And that had been nearly two days ago. It had been a while since Bruce had been so desperately hungry.

He stole.

Ra's al Ghul had taught him much, but that didn't stop Bruce from bringing out his inner criminal once more. He had no choice. If he couldn't get something to eat soon he would collapse, die, and rot away in this unknown corner of the world. That wasn't how Bruce planned to live the rest of his life.

Perhaps it was because of his weakness, perhaps not. Something went wrong, and the police had caught him. Of course, he could have fought them off easily enough, with all his training, but something - instinct - told Bruce it wasn't the time. He let the police knock him to the ground, beat him a little, and handcuff him.

Now they were taking him away to some unknown prison in the middle of nowhere.

Bruce felt an idea taking shape in his head. It was time to call home.

"Hey! Hey!" Bruce banged his fist on the front of the truck. Only when he shouted for the fourth time they finally responded.

"What the hell do you want?" A cop answered, peeking through the barred flap at Bruce.

"I need to make a phone call."

The cop chuckled. "Forget it. You're a goddamned prisoner, for God's sake." The cop was about to turn away.

"I can give you money." said Bruce. He could tell the policeman was interested.

"How much." This was a command, not a question.

"Twenty dollars."

"You're plumb crazy." The cop chuckled again, but Bruce could see the greedy glint in his eye.

"Just let me make one phone call." Bruce reached into his ninja suit where, for seven years, a twenty-dollar bill had been sitting. He showed it to the man.

"All right. Make it quick." The cop snatched the money from Bruce and handed him a cell phone.

_Aren't there any cops that can't be bought?_ Thought Bruce as he took it. He was almost surprised that he remembered Alfred's phone number.

"Hello?" Bruce could have fainted with joy and affection when he heard his butler's familiar English-accented voice.

"Alfred, it's me."

"Master Wayne?" Bruce could hear the surprise in Alfred's voice, and smiled.

"Yeah, it's really me. Listen, Alfred, I'm in a bit of a... situation here." Bruce very nearly used the word 'mess'. "Do you think you could fly over to Tibet by tomorrow morning in my jet? You'd better bring some cash, too..."

"What in the world is going on, Master Wayne?"

"I'll explain when you get here." Bruce sighed. "You can track a phone call, can't you?"

"Yes, I suppose so."

"Then track down this phone... I hope you can do it, because if you can't..."

"You'll be lost forever in an unknown part of the world, I think I got that, sir."

Bruce smiled again. "Then good luck with it. I'm being hauled away to prison here, so you'd better hurry."

"Excuse me, Master Wayne, _prison_? What -"

"See you later, Alfred." Bruce hung up.

"You aren't doing something stupid, are you?" The cop eyed Bruce suspiciously.

"Whatever I'm doing, it doesn't concern you." Bruce leaned back against the wall again, and smiling, despite his rumbling stomach, he mangaged to fall asleep.

* * *

"You look quite fashionable, Master Wayne."

Bruce looked down on himself. His black ninja suit was covered in soot, dirt, and some blood. It was the same one he had been given on the day he arrived at Ra's' monastry. Somehow he had managed not to lose his bronze gauntlets, which had proved to be very useful weapons indeed.

"Thanks, Alfred. It's been a while." Bruce smiled and warmly shook Alfred's hand.

Alfred showed Bruce inside the jet.

"What in the world have you been up to, Master Wayne?"

"Now, that's a tricky question to answer." Bruce sat back and sipped the orange juice Alfred had given him.

"Don't you think I deserve a little information, sir? You've been gone seven years."

"I'm sorry, Alfred. But I can't tell you anything right now. Perhaps later, when I'm ready to do so." Bruce did feel guilty, leaving Alfred in the dark like that. He had rescued him, indeed - bribed for Bruce's freedom with the cash he had brought. The cops, in the end, had let him go for an outrageous two hundred and fifty dollars.

"I understand, sir." Alfred sighed. "You were always a private sort or man, were you not?"

"I believe I was."

The men sat in silence for a few moments. Then, Alfred spoke. "What do you plan to do now, sir?"

Bruce remained thoughtfully quiet for a minute. "I'm not sure yet. But... I think... I'm going to become a cop."

"Pardon me, sir? A cop?" Alfred choked on his juice.

"Yes, you heard me right." Replied Bruce calmly. "Over the last seven years, Alfred, I've seen much - but the things that disgusted me most were the the policemen. I've been all over the world. Everywhere, the cops seemed to be more corrupt than the criminals themselves. Take today as an example. Give the bastards money, they do whatever you want them to do. Are there any cops in the world that can't be bought? I want to become one of them."

"But, sir... Do you think you have the... necessary skills to be a part of the Gotham PD? For one thing, the city's teeming with dangerous criminals... And as you said so yourself, you'll be heavily outnumbered by corrupt policemen on your own side."

"I'm trained physically, if that's what you mean about the danger," Bruce tapped his bronze gauntlets. "As for being outnumbered... I'm sure I'll be able to find someone to work with."

"I suppose I'm not in a position to stop you, Master Wayne... But I beg you to make a wise, and sensible, choice."

"I made up my mind long ago, Alfred. I won't turn back now."

Alfred nodded silently in response and gazed out the window. Bruce leaned back and closed his eyes, enjoying the comfort that he hadn't felt for the last seven years.

"Have you told anyone that I'm coming back?" He asked Alfred without opening his eyes.

"I haven't figured out the legal ramifications of raising you from the dead."

"Dead?" Bruce snapped his eyes open and sat up.

"It's been seven years."

"You had me declared dead?"

"Actually, it was Mr. Earle. He wanted to liquidate your majority shareholding. He's taking the company public. Your shares brought in an enormous amount of capital."

"Good thing I left everything to you, then."

"Quite so, sir. You're welcome to borrow the Rolls, by the way. Just bring it back with a full tank."

Bruce smiled, and nodded. Lying back once more, he thought of the horrendous state Gotham would be in right now... And about what he would be able to do to set the city straight again. How much harder than fighting Henri Ducard in a room full of smoke could it possibly be?

Later, Bruce knew the answer - a lot harder.


	2. Chapter One

_**Chapter One**_

_**I'm going to be a different sort of cop – very different.**_

"Hello?"

It had been seven years since Bruce heard that voice. Rachel Dawes. How much he had missed her. Her face had often haunted his dreams during the first few months of travelling. Afterwards, it had slowly faded away until it became a fuzzy impression of her. Ra's al Ghul's teaching came to mind. _Memories of loved ones can be poison in your veins..._ Rachel's case wasn't much different. Bruce had doubted he would see her again.

"Rachel?" Bruce found his voice and answered her.

"Who is this?" He winced. _It's been seven years_, he told himself.

"It's me... Bruce Wayne."

"_Bruce_?" Bruce allowed Rachel to calm down again by staying silent for a few moments. Only then he dared to speak again.

"Er, so... How are you, Rachel?"

"No, how are _you_?" Rachel talked very fast. "You've been gone seven years, Bruce! Where have you been? What were you doing? What are you doing now?"

"Calm down, Rachel." Bruce said firmly. "Should we meet and talk? I'm free for a while."

"Yeah, sure. Where-"

"Come to my place." Said Bruce without hesitation. "It's the same old house, don't worry..."

"Okay. I'll be there right away." She was about to hang up.

"Wait... It's good to hear from you again, Rachel."

"Yeah. Good to hear you, too." A pause. "See you in a few minutes."

Rachel's heart was beating very fast. She had to admit, she was nervous. Bruce Wayne. She thought he had been dead for the last seven years. Like everybody else had. And then he called her... Rachel forced herself to drive slowly. As she approached the familiar Wayne Manor she found that she could barely breathe._ Calm down, you idiot, what the heck is wrong with you? It's just Bruce. Just Bruce._

She got out of the car, looking around. The place wasn't much different. There was a Rolls parked outside the house; quite possibly good old Alfred's. Rachel took her time as she walked towards the door. Hands shaking, she rung the doorbell, not sure of what to expect.

The door creaked open almost instantly. A young man stood behind it... Bruce. Bruce Wayne. It was really him.

"Rachel! You're here!" He came forward. "It's really great to see you..."

Rachel, at first, couldn't speak. Then she ran up to him, hugged him, then held him at an arm's length, as if examining him. In fact, that was exactly what she was doing. Bruce was obviously the same man Rachel had seen before his disappearance... Yet he was different. Something in his eyes - a knowing and wisdom that didn't belong to such a young person. And he looked more built, radiated a strange air of power... Or was it just her?

"Where have you been, Bruce?"

As much as Rachel wanted to tell him how much she had missed him, or how happy she was to see him again, she couldn't help thinking of the last time she had seen him - in front of Falcone's bar, in the underground streets of Gotham. He had disappeared the next day.

Bruce didn't answer. After a long, uneasy silence, he said - "I'm sorry, but I can't tell you that."

"_Can't tell me?_" Rachel said, her voice higher than intended. "You can't tell me?"

"Look, Rachel, I haven't even told Alfred. It's personal... You know how private a person I am. Please, can we not talk about it?" Bruce avoided her eyes.

"I've had enough, Bruce. Why do you invite me over if you're not going to tell me anything?" Tears began to well up in her eyes. "All these years, I've been thinking that you were dead! And now..." She couldn't face him no longer. Rachel turned away, and ran to her car, ignoring Bruce, who was shouting her name.

Later, Rachel found herself deeply regretting her actions on that day. If only she had listened to him... Things would have been so much better...

Bruce was angry. Not with Rachel, but with himself.

_Why can't you just tell her?_ He asked himself._ What's the big deal?_

_Because, what happened there in the mountains, what you've gone through, it's only for you to know, and you alone. You know that._

He told Alfred nothing about Rachel's sudden departure. Alfred didn't ask, seeing the dark expression on his master's face. Bruce left the house soon afterwards, with an envelope of documents tucked under his arm. He borrowed the Rolls, and drove slowly, into the city, observing.

Gotham had decayed further in his absence. Garbage and junk littered the streets; beggars were everywhere, and the monorail, once shiny and in peak condition, was now no more than a rusty metal can with wheels. Bruce's knuckles tightened over the steering wheel; anger was slowly bubbling up inside him. He missed his father so much. Gotham would have been so much more, if Thomas Wayne were still alive...

Bruce parked the car in front of Gotham's central police station. He climbed out, looking up at the building. Entering, he looked around for an information desk - a young woman was sitting there, writing something.

"Yes?" She said without looking up when Bruce approached her.

"I... I wish to apply for the Gotham PD. Where...?"

The woman's look of surprise was plain in her face. "Apply? For the PD? But..."

"Yes?" Said Bruce pleasantly.

"Er, never mind..." The woman gestured to her left. "The second office to the right. There'll be an officer in there, you can ask him for details."

"Thank you." Bruce gave her a wide smile and walked off. She didn't stop staring until he disappeared into the room.

True to the woman's word, there was a policeman sitting in the office. Bruce noticed his bulging waistline, slack mouth, eyes that lacked alertness... This was going to be far harder than Bruce had imagined, if this is what the majority of cops looked like.

"I'd like to apply for the Gotham PD."

"Name?" The cop said in a bored drawl.

"Bruce Wayne." The policeman stared at him, eyes wide in astonishment.

"Are you _the_ Wayne?"

"I'm not sure I understand." said Bruce, shrugging. "I just came to apply for the Gotham PD."

"You? PD?" The policeman's eyes were popping from his head. "I thought - Everybody said you were dead -"

"You confuse me." Bruce feigned puzzlement. "Can we get on with the application, please? I'm in a bit of a rush here."

The cop's jaw was hanging open. At last, he said - "Sure. I'm sorry. Did you bring your documents? We'll have to interview you, and you must take a physical capability test..."

* * *

"Will I be permitted to use my own weapons?" Bruce asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. The cop he was talking to was... Different. He was older, for one thing, and the look in his eyes... He was a world-weary man. But also a wise one. Bruce already found that he liked him. And he was familiar... Where had he seen him before?

"What sort of weapons?" The cop said. "As long as they're not firearms, yes. What do you have in mind?"

"Oh, I have my ideas." Bruce replied. "How did I do on the test?"

"Surprisingly well... Have you undergone any previous training?"

"Sort of..."

"Well, you're in, now. I'm going to be your partner... James Gordon." The policeman held out his hand. Bruce shook it. James Gordon... Bruce realized that he _had_ met this man before - when he was only a boy, the night his parents were murdered. Jim was the same cop who had comforted him, putting Thomas Wayne's jacked over his shoulders... "I'm honored to work with you, Mr. Wayne."

"Call me Bruce." He said, finally finding his voice. "So... Do I get to tag along on your patrols?"

"You'll be stuck with paperwork for a few weeks... But it all depends. You never know how fast you'll be promoted." Gordon shrugged. "I'll give you a package, and you can go home for the day. I'll see you tomorrow at nine o'clock."

"Alright. Thanks, Mr. Gordon."

"Call me Jim." Gordon said with a smile. Bruce also grinned. He really did like this man.

* * *

Alfred served a delicious dinner for Bruce that evening - turkey with homemade stuffing, mashed potatoes, fried vegetables... The only thing was, Bruce wasn't terribly hungry. He was never hungry nowadays - after learning to survive on tiny amounts of food his stomach was beginning to reject the scrumptious meals Alfred was serving him three times a day.

"Are you not well, Master Wayne?" Asked Alfred, seeing Bruce picking at his turkey.

"No, not at all," Bruce replied, shaking his head. "I'm just... Not hungry."

"You didn't seem hungry since the day you returned home, sir." Alfred looked at him, cutting a slice of turkey. "Is there something wrong with the food?"

"No, the food's great, Alfred. It's... Well, a little hard to explain. My stomach must have shrunk when I was abroad."

"Did you starve yourself, Master Wayne?"

"Sort of." Bruce said, grinning, despite himself.

"I don't think want to know any more." Alfred said dryly. After a moment of silence, he asid - "So I'm only to serve the simplest fare?"

"When you feel like it, sure - knock yourself out. But every meal doesn't have to be a feast." Bruce pushed himself from the table.

"I understand, sir. What sort of dish..."

"Rice, Alfred. Rice and vegetables are fine. Even better, with green tea."

"Where exactly did your tastes change, Master Wayne?" Alfred raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, in some unknown region in China? Or was it Tibet? I can never remember..."

"Tomorrow, Master Wayne, you'll receive the finest bowl of rice in the country, and not a morsel more," Alfred said with a wide smile.

"Thanks, Alfred. I'll be looking forward to it." Bruce went upstairs to his room. The package Gordon had given him sat on his desk, still waiting to be opened. In truth, Bruce was almost afraid to look inside - what lay in wait of him at the Gotham PD? An insanely large number of criminals, corrupt policemen, invincible mob bosses... Bruce began to doubt himself. But when he thought of Gordon, the 'good' cop - he suddenly felt strength.

Bruce opened the envelope. Information on being a Gotham policeman filled the pages inside - from patrols to capturing criminals, using a gun to killing. As Gordon had told him - _As long as they're not firearms..._ Ducard didn't teach Bruce anything about using guns. Guns, he had said, are primitive weapons - but swords, for instance, are shaped by the man wielding it. Bruce saw, in his mind's eye, the pair of gauntlets from the monastery. They were deadly, effective, and very useful in dozens of different ways. He grinned. _I'm going to be a different sort of cop,_ Bruce thought, _very different. _

At the very end of the package sat a page about a mob boss - Carmine Falcone. Along with a 'Wanted' photo, it presented information on all of the man's crimes - but other than that, nothing useful. Bruce could immediately tell that this one would be hard to bring down. This was his first target.

_Carmine Falcone. I'm coming._

**Notes**: Well, that's Chapter One. I'm sorry if it's crappy or poorly written, I'm just not a very good writer. The little discussion between Alfred and Bruce, about food, is similar to the one in the movie novelisation. As you can see I'll be referring to the book a lot, since it features more scenes and situations than the movie, and because it also happens to be sitting on my desk right now.

Reviews will be appreciated!


	3. Chapter Two

Thanks again to all my reviewers, and the alerts! Forgive me if the updates are slow...

**Notes**: I edited this chapter; Gordon's kids names, really. So yeah - I've seen TDK twice now, I know that he has a son and daughter and that the son's name is Jimmy.

**Chapter Two**

_He had the money. He had the abilities. Heck, he even had the looks. So why did he join them?_

Jim Gordon fiddled with his lapel radio, now detatched from his collar, while he drove home in the dark. Today had been a tiring, but a very hopeful, day. It wasn't often the PD recieved new 'recruits', as Loeb sometimes liked to joke. Most men weren't willing to risk their necks for a job that never paid off. Only the desperate joined the Gotham PD. But Bruce Wayne? He wasn't desperate. God, he was a _billionare_. The Prince of Gotham. Gordon had thought he wouldn't like the man - he'd be stuck-up, arrogant and unknowing like the rest of his kind. To his great surprise, Gordon actually found that Wayne was a good man. Of course, he couldn't be sure yet - he still barely knew Bruce Wayne, and it was impossible to tell by what he knew so far.

When Jim parked his car outside his house his kids, Jimmy and Barbara Jr., came running to meet him. "Dad! Guess what! I won second place in the 100m dash today!"

"Hey! I was going to tell him about my spelling bee prize first!"

Jim smiled and hugged them both. "Good for you!" With Jimmy clinging onto one arm and Barbara Jr. on the other, Jim went inside - his wife Barbara was waiting for him, a decent meal of roast beef ready. As always, she asked him -

"How was your day?"

"Fine..." After a moment's hesitation Jin added - "I have a new partner."

"Really?" Barbara called the children to the table and poured some water for her husband. They all sat, and began eating.

"Yeah. A new kid." Jim took a sip from his cup.

"You're joking? I thought the Gotham PD never got any more new recruits nowadays." Cutting herself some beef, Barbara raised her eyebrows.

"I dunno. But this one came. And you'll never guess who he is."

"Who is it?"

Jim took a glance at Jimmy and Barbara. They wouldn't blab away about this to their friends, would he? Lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, Jim answered. "Bruce Wayne."

"Bruce _who_?" Yelped Barbara. "Thomas Wayne's son?"

"Yeah."

"But he's dead! And a billionare!"

"He's certainly not dead... But he does seem pretty darn rich."

"Wow... He's really not dead?"

Jim rolled his eyes. "Unless the dead scores a near perfect on the physical capability test."

"That rich kid? Amazing."

"I know. Apparently he's had training."

"Where?"

"He didn't say." Jim shovelled some meat into his mouth. "I don't know, he seems like a nice kid."

"Bruce Wayne... Now billionare playboys begin to return from the dead? What's Gotham getting to?"

"I don't know... It's strange, though, why would a billionare want to be a Gotham cop?"

"Maybe the money went to his head." Barbara shrugged.

"Maybe." That closed the discussion. Soon Jimmy and Barbara was telling Jim all about their school day. After dinner Jim watched TV with Barbara - he made sure not to flip to the news channel. If he did he and Barbara would get into another argument about his job - she would say there is no hope in the Gotham PD, and Jim would probably lose his temper. Later he would admit to himself that his wife was right. But what choice did he have? The only police force that would hire him was in Gotham, so in Gotham he stayed.

Tonight Jim and Barbara wasted away their evening watching a cheesy monster movie. Afterwards Jim went upstairs to right a report - one that probably wouldn't even be read, not even filed. And he also thought about Bruce Wayne - his new partner.

For a billionare, the kid was too polite, too athletic, too... different. The question that wouldn't leave Jim's mind was - _Why the hell did he come and join the Gotham PD_? He had the money. He had the abilities. Heck, he even had the looks. So why did he join them? A dead end? Police didn't even earn that much money. A thought struck Jim. _Maybe it's not for money_...

Another voice inside him answered. _Then what?_

* * *

Bruce had spent an entire morning at the police station - lounging around, listening observing. No reports came in that day - even if there was any no one would have responded. Bruce had seen how half of the cops were asleep or drunk. Only he and Gordon seemed fully alert.

Jim Gordon. He and Bruce had a few conversations about useless things - the weather, clothes, beer. But to Bruce this was an important part of his new career. He needed to analyze the policemen - Gordon, his partner, was a first. Bruce didn't learn too much - other than that Gordon was a married man, with a son, aged nine. He didn't tell Gordon much about his own life. Not even Alfred knew about how he had spent his last seven years. Gordon shouldn't, either. At least, not yet.

Next on Bruce's list was to visit Wayne Enterprises.

It had been a while since Bruce last saw the Wayne Tower. The place, at least, didn't seem to have changed - unlike the rest of Gotham City, which had basically rotted away during Bruce's absence. His Lamborghini smoothly entered the parking lot - there was a uniformed man standing at the entrance.

"How long will you be staying, Mr..."

"Just for an hour or so," Bruce said, not telling the man his name.

"Go ahead, sir." Bruce drove in, admiring the shiny floor and ceiling of the lot, also the cars parked inside. He got out, and took the elavator to the top floor - the meeting room, where, he knew, William Earle would be.

That bastard Bill Earle. Bruce recalled what the man had said when he was nine, on the day of his parents' funeral _...and we're minding the empire. When you're all grown up, it'll be waiting for you_. Sure, thought Bruce. How furious he had been when he learned that the company had been taken public by Earle. That _bastard_. Bruce had a plan - he would buy the entire company right back, down to the most obscure departments. But first he'd have to get used to the place... And he had a fairly good idea of how.

He remembered a man Alfred once told him about. Fox - Lucius Fox. What department was he in again? Right. Applied Sciences. Suddenly it struck Bruce - just how conviniently everything was placed. Applied Sciences. Perfect. For Bruce knew he would need some extra weapons for his latest project of bringing down Carmine Falcone.

Bruce emerged from the elevator, looking quite striking with his business suit and tie. He walked up to the reception desk, where a young woman was busily typing away on a computer.

"Excuse me, I'm here to see Mr. Earle." Bruce tried not to spit out the name with venom.

"Name?"

"Bruce Wayne." The woman began to scan a list, then stopped, her eyes wide.

The phone on her table began to buzz. Bruce said pleasantly - "You can pick that up. I have plenty of time."

The woman put the reciever to her ear, still staring at Bruce. He heard Earle's voice bark - "Jessica, get me that prospectus... never mind, I'll get it myself."

William Earle slammed the door of the meeting room open and stormed inside. Only then he saw Bruce Wayne standing before him.

"Hello, Mr. Earle, I remember meeting you when I was nine." Bruce said through a wide smile.

Earle just stared at him, mouth opening and closing like that of a fish. Finally he found his voice, and spoke. "We thought you were dead!"

Bruce shrugged, raising his eyebrow. "Sorry to disappoint."

Twenty minutes later Bruce was in Earle's luxurious office, sipping at some excellent coffee.

"So... You'd like a place in the Enterprises?" Asked Earle, still looking as if he'd seen a ghost.

"Yes. I want to get to know the company my father built."

"Great idea indeed, Bruce." Earle said. "Where do you want to start?"

"The Applied Sciences department caught my eye." Bruce hoped he didn't sound too strange. Unfortunately, he did.

"Fox's department?" Earle raised his eyebrows, as if trying to convince him to choose somewhere else to go. When it failed he gave a resigned sigh. "Perfect. I'll make a call."

"Thank you." Bruce set down the coffee and went for the door.

"Oh, and Bruce?" Earle called after him. "Some of the assistants and so on... because of your name they may _assume_..."

Bruce held up a hand. "Not to worry. I'll be absolutely clear with everyone that I'm just another humble employee." Inside, he was giving Earle a devilish grin. Suddenly he didn't feel so upset about the loss of his company.

That's the end of Chapter Two... Hope you enjoyed it. A third is coming up soon. Just to let everyone know, updates will be slower from this coming September, as I'm going to school in a foreign country. I hope you'll understand. Thanks so much for the reviews and alerts!


	4. Chapter Three

**Notes: **This was originally intended to be chapter four in the story. However, after a lot of mulling over I decided to omit the original chapter three and go straight to this one instead. There were a lot of reasons for it, such as violence, writer's block, diminishing of impact, etc, etc... so yeah!

And thank you so much for the review, **VesperRegina**! I'm glad you're liking it so far, and know that one of the sole reasons I'm continuing to post this on FF is because of your review ;)

**Chapter Three: Haze**

When Yukawa slowly opened his eyes, he found himself looking up at a blindingly bright fluorescent light. He winced, shutting his lids for a moment, then tried again. That was slightly better. Now that he was feeling less disoriented, he was able to pick out some low voices that seemed to be coming from nearby. It was quite quiet, except for an aggravating _beep-beep_ that was ringing near his head. Yukawa wondered what it was, and tried to figure out his whereabouts. His head felt uncharacteristically fuzzy…

An acute pain went flashing through his abdomen when he tried to move. It took his breath away and he fell back with a gasp. He also found the side of his face was stinging dully; putting a hand there he felt a piece of gauze taped down the side of it. Yukawa quickly came to the conclusion that he was now lying on a hospital bed. The voices would probably be doctors or nurses then, and the beeping a heart rate monitor… How did he end up here?

Grimacing, Yukawa tried to sit up again. Logically, staying still would be most optimal judging by the current situation. However, his natural curiosity – his desire to take in his surroundings and know what was happening around him – overrode his logic for a moment. Yukawa somehow succeeded after several minutes of struggling with the weight of his own body (_why_ did he feel so heavy? _Drugs_, he answered himself). Even this small effort left him quite drained and he also noticed that his pulse had sped up considerably.

It was a smallish private hospital ward. On the bedside table next to Yukawa were a bunch of flowers, what looked like a small basket of sweets, a stack of cards and a remote control. Across from him, there was a television mounted on the wall. Reaching for the remote, Yukawa found that his right hand was almost entirely encased in a cast to the wrist, with the exception of his thumb and index finger. Frowning, he stared at it for a moment. He was having trouble recalling how he had gotten here, and why. He just remembered that there had been pain, so much of it. And a single name had stuck in his brain – _Sugiyama_. He tried muttering it to himself under his breath. For some reason, it seemed to taste of blood.

Absently, Yukawa took the remote between his thumb and index finger, then turned the television on. Just as he predicted, a nurse came into the room barely thirty seconds later.

It was a rather short young woman. She came rushing to Yukawa, and gently but firmly taking the remote from him, said "Yukawa-san! You mustn't overexert yourself – how are you feeling?"

Did his vocal chords work? Yukawa tried to speak. All that emerged was a sort of raspy noise. He tried again; this time his voice obeyed him, although it still sounded rather worse for the wear. "I'm not entirely sure," he answered truthfully, as he knew that his nerves were probably swimming in morphine right now. Even so, his stomach was aching abominably. He shuddered to think how badly it would hurt if he wasn't being drugged like he was at the moment.

"That's normal; you're probably not feeling very clear-headed right now. Lie back and relax. Is there anything you'd like me to get you?" The nurse was busying herself by checking a clipboard that had been on another table, then scribbling something on it.

Couldn't the nurse tell that he had no desire to speak at the moment? "No, thanks."

"Are you sure? I'm going to excuse myself for a moment so if you need anything, do press the button for assistance." Yukawa lay back again as the nurse left, attempting to collect his thoughts. The noise of the television didn't help, so he turned his attention to it instead. He couldn't see it clearly without his glasses – where were they anyways? After determining that watching television would only make him more nauseous than necessary, Yukawa reached the remote again with some difficulty, and switched it off. Complete silence, apart from the heart rate monitor, greeted him.

Five minutes of being awake, and Yukawa already felt unbearably bored. He touched his chin with his free hand and felt stubble; so it had been a few days at least. Out of curiosity, he took a peek under his hospital gown. Scratchy gauze covered his abdomen up to right below the chest. He stared hard at it, cursing his memory for failing him. Why couldn't he remember anything?

Yukawa couldn't have said how much time had passed. He dozed in and out of consciousness, the drugs making his lids heavy. The throbbing in his stomach would vary in intensity; sometimes it was barely there, and sometimes it was strong enough to make him want to curl up into a ball around the spot. Sometimes, there would be a doctor or nurse in the room with him. Occasionally Yukawa thought he saw familiar figures nearby, but their faces were too indistinct to make out. He caught snatches of phrases and words, uttered in low voices. After a while, everything seemed to blur together.

Feeling more awake, Yukawa glanced at the clock and saw that it was about six o'clock. Judging by the light coming from the window it was in the evening. He felt that his mind was sharper now. It seemed like they were giving him less painkillers. Which meant that, in turn, there was more pain. It was nothing unbearable – just unpleasant; as a matter of fact, it helped him think more clearly. He preferred this to the haziness of earlier.

There were voices outside again, louder this time. Yukawa could make out the words.

The nurse was talking, quite quickly, as if agitated. A man spoke (where had Yukawa heard him before?), obviously cutting the nurse off, "I'm sorry, I really don't want to give you any trouble, but he's a friend, and I was very worried for him. Can't I just see him for five minutes?"

"I don't think he's awake now, Kusanagi-san; even if he was I can't say that it would do him any good. He's been on heavy medication so he's bound to be out of it when – if – he regains consciousness."

Yukawa thought he heard his friend grumbling something, and decided that he'd had enough of this boredom.

"Kusanagi?" He called out, as loudly as his throat would permit.

There was a moments' silence; Kusanagi came in, completely ignoring the protesting nurse from earlier. His face was lined with tiredness and anxiety; there were dark circles under his eyes, obviously from a lack of sleep. Relief immediately spread across Kusanagi's face when he saw Yukawa, conscious and alert enough to recognize him. "Oi, Yukawa. Nice to have you back."

Yukawa looked at him, then the nurse, who retreated rather sulkily. "Thanks… How long has it been?"

"Long enough. Nearly a week." Kusanagi replied, and handed Yukawa a cup of water, which he accepted gratefully. "We knew you'd pull through – you always recovered quickly, even during our college days. Can you remember what happened?"

"To be honest, no, I can't." Yukawa spoke slowly, after taking a sip of water. "It's all a blur. Except for… Sugiyama."

A short but rather tense silence settled over the pair. Kusanagi said at last, "Can you remember him stabbing you? Anything?" Yukawa made no response; he just furrowed his brow and thought. Kusanagi, seeming to be determined to continue, said, "To make a long story short, on August 26th, Kuribayashi Hiromi came to the 13th Laboratory at five in the morning to prepare for an experiment. He found Utsumi in the corner, tied up and half-asleep from exhaustion, and you – you were just propped up against the wall beside the blackboard, the floor and your clothes covered in blood. We'd thought you were beyond saving by then, since Utsumi said that you were attacked three and a half hours ago, but the paramedics found that the stab wound wasn't bleeding as much as it would've been…"

Yukawa suddenly remembered the hissing Bunsen burner, the metal rod heated, its tip glowing orange. It being held to his abdomen. The sickening smell of flesh, burning... the impossible pain that followed, unlike anything he had ever known. He could recall nothing else from that point on. "Sugiyama. He cauterized it."

"Yeah. They said… they said it would have hurt... a lot..." A sympathetic shiver passed over Kusanagi's face. Yukawa almost laughed at the gross understatement, but refrained from doing so, mostly due to the fact that it would likely cause him more discomfort than necessary. "It saved your life, but the injury was still serious. You gave the surgeons a hard time. You don't even want to know how many stitches you had to get to have the wound sewn up again."

Yukawa didn't hear half of Kusanagi's words. He looked down at his right hand. "Sugiyama… was breaking my fingers." The memory came to him, distant as if it was from a dream. The man, grinning, sitting in front of him and speaking to him softly, as if to a beloved pet dog or cat. Him taking his hand, then a finger, then yanking, hard, to the side –

"Apparently so." Kusanagi's voice was suddenly a growl. "We thought he could have killed you."

"For a while, I thought so too." Yukawa turned to Kusanagi. "But from the beginning, that wasn't his goal… What happened to him?"

"Nothing," Kusanagi sounded bitter. "He got away, far away, way before we started to search for him. As I said, Kuribayashi-san found you almost four hours after the whole thing happened. He and his crew left nothing behind, other than a dead animal in a bag outside the university back gates…"

"Ah." With that, Yukawa found that he'd just been reminded of everything that had happened that night, from Utsumi coming to show him that case file, to passing out right before Sugiyama left, or claimed he would. He recalled the sensation of warm blood spilling from his stomach, the bones of his broken fingers grinding, the tip of the blade being drawn down his temple, slowly…. "… what's my prognosis?"

"Unfortunately, you'll be here for a while, Yukawa." Kusanagi replied. "I know how much you dislike hospitals, but you got yourself hurt pretty badly this time. They told us that it could take up to six weeks for the knife wound to heal. Although it didn't get any major organs, the wound's deep. And the burns around it… The cauterization was done rather messily... so it's probably going to scar." Kusanagi chewed on his lip. "The fingers should take around a month, but it's hard to say when you'll be able to move them freely again. The cut on your face isn't serious but they did warn us about potential scarring there, too. In conclusion, you won't be discharged for another four weeks at least." He took a glance behind him. "I really shouldn't be visiting you right now, because apparently you have a fever, too."

Yukawa sighed, after managing to process everything he'd just heard. "That's… quite grim." He found that his hand had gone to the bandaged spot without him realizing it. Even with his extensive back catalogue of sports-related accidents, Yukawa had never acquired quite so severe an injury, and it almost felt alien. Stuck through the gut with a knife... it wasn't something he'd been expecting to happen to him.

"Definitely. You gave us quite the scare."

Yukawa said wryly, "Sorry if I upset you."

"I forgive you," Kusanagi attempted a smile. Then his expression turned serious again. "I'm not sure about Kaoru though."

"Utsumi." Yukawa looked at Kusanagi, panic briefly fluttering in his chest. The heart rate monitor mirrored it, all too noticeably. "What happened to her? Is she all right?"

"Yeah, she's safe. You don't need to worry; the worst injury she received that night was a bruise that one of the goons probably gave her. But psychologically… she's had quite a shock."

"… that's not surprising."

Kusanagi pulled over a chair and sat down before replying, "She was also pretty guilty about the whole thing."

Yukawa blinked. "Her? Guilty? Why?"

"It might be hard for you to comprehend, Yukawa, but I think it's something that rather resembles survivor's guilt."

"I'm not dead."

"That's why I said that it _resembles_ survivor's guilt." Kusanagi rolled his eyes.

"Well, then, tell her to stop being illogical."

"She said you'd probably say that." Kusanagi sighed. "Look. It's hard to tell her that when she got away unscathed, after watching you suffer like that."

"I'm going to be fine," Yukawa grunted, "It wasn't so bad."

Kusanagi gave a hollow laugh. "Wasn't so bad? Yukawa. She had to listen to you scream for nearly an hour. _After_ getting a knife shoved in you. That monster made her _watch_. _Everything_." He began to sound exasperated. "It was bad. _Really_ bad. They were surprised you even regained consciousness so soon, considering the trauma..."

Yukawa faltered and let his eyes close. He couldn't deny what Kusanagi had said. Without opening them, he said, "She couldn't have possibly done anything without making things worse – tell her that she should stop making her own life more difficult than it probably is."

"The least you can do for her is understand."

"I don't think I can."

"You're always so stubborn. At least try."

Yukawa didn't reply, and laid his head back on his pillow instead. His rather unorganized thoughts seemed to swirl inside his head like a dizzying whirlpool. Finally, he was able to form a coherent question. "Sugiyama… was the one who mutilated the animals, right?"

Kusanagi's lips twisted in disgust. "Yeah."

"He killed them in unimaginably painful ways, didn't he." Yukawa stared at the ceiling. "I remember those photos…"

"What are you trying to say, Yukawa?" Kusanagi asked quietly.

"Why," Yukawa locked eyes with Kusanagi, "didn't he do the same to me?"

"Well, erm," Kusanagi seemed startled by the question. "I thought you said he didn't want to kill you. By the way, how did you know that?"

"He didn't," Yukawa started to nod, then stopped when he found that it made his face hurt. "I guessed that because if he'd wanted to kill me he could have had his thug spear me through the heart or slit my throat from the beginning. He obviously wanted to play."

"He could've tortured you to death."

"No… it was the way he approached me. He was showing restraint. He could have done so much more to me – judging by the photos I saw he knows a thing or two about torture. That's what I was expecting to get." Yukawa had to pause for breath; his throat felt dry and his stomach was throbbing relentlessly. "I don't understand why he did what he did. For example, why did he bother with making a mark on my face that's not even going to be hugely disfiguring? He could have gone so much further if he had wanted."

Kusanagi scratched at his hair, looking disappointed and distinctly nauseated. "To be honest, we were hoping you'd be able to give us some clues, or have some connection to him. Why would he come and find you, nearly kill you then save your life again? It doesn't make sense..."

"He either wasn't planning to take my life from the beginning… or…"

"Or?" Kusanagi pressed.

Yukawa said slowly, "Or something made him change his mind."

"What could've done that?"

"I haven't the slightest clue."

Yukawa and Kusanagi had sunk into a thoughtful silence when the nurse rapped on the doorframe. Her voice carrying the authority of a schoolmaster, she said sternly, "That was well over ten minutes. Out you go, Kusanagi-san. We need to tend to Yukawa-san's injuries."

"Well, I suppose I should get going, then." Kusanagi stood up, pushing the chair back into its place. "I'll tell Kaoru that I've spoken with you. She'll probably come to visit as soon as she can."

Yukawa acknowledged him with a tilt of the head. Which, to his credit, wasn't easy when it was resting on a pillow. "Tell her I'll be looking forward to it."

"I will. Get well soon, Yukawa."


	5. Chapter Four

I'm overwhelmed by the good responses I'm getting from my readers... Thank you so much.

Notes: Someone's asked about the night-vision glasses... Bruce is a nice guy, so he's getting a pair for Jim, too. XD So yeah. And the last part of this chapter takes place at the docks, where Batman first makes his appearence - I thought I'd follow the plot of _Begins_ and add some original scenes in between. That's about it - enjoy.

**Chapter Four**

**_"I'm already liking this job."_**

It was dark by the monorail station - most of the lamps were out, and tonight, there was no moon. Bruce wondered whether he should have brought his night-vision googles. He had decided against it, because it was only his first day - why should he show off to the other cops so early into his career? But he hadn't known that it would be _this_ dark.

As if reading his thoughts, Gordon said, as they climbed out of the car - "We gotta get us some night-vision goggles, or something like that. The government... Heck, they don't give a damn about us cops - we've been patrolling in this pitch blackness for the last five years."

"I think I can contribute - "

"No need, Bruce. You spend your money on better things."

"Jim," Said Bruce, "I'm a goddamned billionaire. I _want_ to help, all right?"

Gordon remained silent as he put on his bulletproof vest, and strapped his gun to his belt. Bruce followed suit, sliding the gauntlets onto his arms. It felt awkward to be wearing them again, although it was only his first week back from the monastery. He had been slacking off, now that he wasn't subject to the brutal training of Ra's Al Ghul. Not good. Note to self: _Keep in shape._

"Now what?" Asked Bruce, looking at Gordon again.

"Now we patrol, what else?"

Bruce had never imagined patrolling to be so incredibly dull. He and Gordon stood in the dark, listening, watching - for something, for anything! After what seemed like hours Bruce checked his watch - only eight o'clock. Less than half an hour had passed. It was very nearly agonizing, even for Bruce, who had undergone training that had strenghtened his patience - sitting motionless on an iceburg for hours, for instance. He could feel Gordon shifting from foot to foot beside him. Gordon finally spoke to him -

"Should we just call it a night-"

A scream, a woman's scream, shattered the night. "_Get your hands off of me_!"

All of Bruce's senses snapped to attention. His well-trained eyes found the figures in the darkness, behind a rusty steel beam - a woman and a huge, bald man. Without waiting for Gordon, who was fumbling for his flashlight and gun, Bruce sprinted, covering the distance between him and the pair in a matter of seconds - he knew that if he didn't hurry, things would turn very ugly. _Very_ ugly.

"Bruce! Wait-" Bruce couldn't wait. Ignoring Gordon, he smashed into the bald man, successfully knocking him away from the woman. Then he saw who she was -

"Rachel?" A brutal blow from the bald man to his shoulder knocked Bruce to the ground. Rachel let out another scream. Bruce rolled onto his back, and pushed with both feet. The man staggered backward; Bruce pulled himself upright again, and punched. The bald man roared in pain and fury - there was a glittler of silver - Bruce knew, it was a knife. He brought his gauntleted arm up and blocked the blow, inches from his face. The blade was caught between the spikes of his gauntlet. A twist of his arm, and the knife clattered to the ground. But then the bald man kicked him in the shins, and the real fight was on.

And Jim Gordon, meanwhile, wasn't quite sure what to do. Could he shoot? No, he'd probably hit Bruce, who was a flurry of movement, fighting the mugger - how the hell did he do that? Looking past Bruce and the man, Gordon spotted Rachel Dawes, frozen to the spot with fear and shock. Yes, she was his priority. It seemed as though Bruce could take care of himself.

Gordon ran to Rachel, grabbed her arm, and pulled her away from the fight. That seemed to snap her back into reality. She looked at Gordon, and said frantically -

"We have to help him!"

"I think he could-" There was a muffled _thud,_ and a grunt. Gordon looked; Bruce was still standing, the thug was not. He let out a sigh of relief. "Are you all right, Bruce?"

"Yeah. I think so." Bruce came towards Gordon and Rachel. His lip was bleeding, but other than that, he seemed to be intact. "Rachel, you okay?"

Rachel nodded. "What are you doing here, anyways?"

Gordon interrupted before Bruce could answer. "Wait. You two know each other?"

"Childhood friends." Said Bruce. "Oh, and Rachel - I'm a cop. Sums it all up, doesn't it?"

Rachel stared. "Have you really lost your mind, Bruce?"

"Why? I'm already liking this job." Bruce wiped the blood from his mouth, and grinned.

* * *

"I think you should slow down on your new career a little, Master Wayne." Alfred remarked, seeing just how black and blue Bruce was the following morning.

"No need," replied Bruce, stretching. A few dozen bruises had joined the scars that he had recieved during his wild years. As for the lip - Bruce winced when he saw how swollen it was.

"I thought you recieved training?" Alfred raised his eyebrows.

"I did." Replied Bruce, turning to his butler. "But I got rusty. I've got to keep in shape."

"Keep in shape?" Alfred looked at Bruce as he began to do pushups, two per second. "I trust you learned that abroad."

"Yes, among many other useful things."

"You never fail to surprise me, Master Wayne."

xXXXx

Bruce had lots to do that day. Jim Gordon had convinced Loeb to let Bruce take a day off, in exchange for another pile of paperwork. Bruce readily agreed.

In the morning, he paid another visit to Wayne Enterprises. He and Fox engaged in another discussion on the future of the company - later, their conversation shifted into the Applied Sciences department. Bruce figured that he should learn more about the place - he needed lots from it. Fox obliged, telling him all about the various gadgets he had invented over the years. Bruce listened carefully, for it was valuable information. Remembering that he needed something of the sort, he asked Fox for a listening device - Fox, again, replied with raised eyebrows and a shrug.

"The PD allows spying?"

"There's no rules banning snooping around there," Bruce replied. His meeting with Fox left him with a sophisticated, and very compact microphone and earpieces.

After another lunch with Fox, Bruce went home and began to research Carmine Falcone. Most websites didn't offer much information on the mob boss, so Bruce had to delve in deeper. That included hacking into some government files and chatting with a former member of Falcone's gang. Bruce found out lots about Falcone's activities - murders connected to him, drug smuggling, muggings, bar fights, even... And another important thing. Apparently Falcone's men were smuggling drugs tonight, at the piers - eleven o'clock.

Bruce called Gordon, and told him to bring a few men to the piers at around midnight. An hour would be enough to dispatch the criminals, Bruce calculated, and then Gordon's team would take them away. Simple enough. But the problem was Falcone himself. Bruce was doubting himself - hadn't Ra's taught him not to? How hard could it be?

Dinner was rice and vegetables, as Alfred had promised. Bruce enjoyed the meal; Alfred seemed pleased with his work. But now came the time for dirty work. Without telling Alfred where he was going, Bruce left the house a few hours later, with his gauntlets and night-vision glasses ready. Thomas Wayne's monorail proved to be very useful - Bruce got to his destination in less than half an hour. As he had expected, there was a ship on the dock - men were taking moving crates, with a familiar figure looking over them - the revloting Flass, who Bruce had seen at the police station. Jim Gordon's former partner.

Bruce chewed on his lip. So Flass was with Falcone? Damn it. Damn it! Would that bastard spy on his own comerades? Was he a threat to the PD? Bruce's head was suddenly spinning. He had witnessed his first corrupt cop. _Not the time to think about that_, he thought. Right now he had to focus on his goal - Falcone's fall.

**lol, I know how much everyone hates cliffies... Sorry 'bout that. Also sorry for the long waits between updates; I open eleven tabs when I use the Internet - Fanfics aren't the only thing I'm doing. I promise, though, that I'll finish this up. Reviews are my life. XD**


	6. Chapter Five

Wow. This must be my fastest update yet. I had fun writing this chapter, and I hope it's fun to read, too. You might notice I borrowed many scenes and lines from _Batman Begins_... Must I explain again?

Thanks once again to all the viewers of the previous chapters, reviewers, and the kind readers who have put this story in their favourites or have alerted. Oh, and forgive my spelling of 'favourite', as I am a Canadian... XD

Enjoy.

**Chapter Five**

Richie regretted taking this job - he regretted it very much. That fat man, what was his name? Flass? Wouldn't stop cursing in his general direction - what the hell was wrong with him? According to Richie's buddy Adam, Flass was a cop. A cop. That made Richie falter - a cop was overlooking their smuggling of drugs? Was Falcone really insane? Richie planned to take off straight after this, sever his ties with the mob boss, and get on with his life. Damn it, if he hadn't agreed to come to the docks, things would have been so much easier...

He didn't know just _how_ much easier his life would have been.

Usually smuggling only took about two hours; sometimes three. This time - about twenty minutes.

Richie and Adam carried a crate to the containers, following another pair of men. They were working under a single, unshaded lamp - around them, total darkness. The crate was heavy; Richie lost his grip on his side of the box, and dropped it - and then, suddenly, there was no one on the opposite end, either. The crate crashed to the floor; Richie realized that Adam was gone. Vanished, just like that. Richie felt his heart pounding against his ribcage - what was happening?

"Adam?" No answer.

The pair of men that were ahead of Richie glanced back. "Rich! What the hell's going on?"

"I don't know - Adam - he's gone -" Suddenly, there were screams from the men in front. Richie stared, terrified - someone - or something - had suddenly appeared amongst the pair, and seemed to be beating the living hell out of them both. Richie stood there, trying to figure out what he should do. Run? Yell? Or shoot? He fingered the machine gun at his belt. After a moment he pulled it out, and held it steady - but it was impossible to shoot without hitting his friends -

And then Richie had a clear shot. Both men had fallen; the intruder was standing. Richie didn't hesitate. He fired the gun - the intruder crouched down and rolled away, into the protection of some containers - Richie thought he heard a grunt of pain - he wasn't sure of anything any more -

Suddenly a fist smashed into his face, knocking him backward and dazing him. The gun was wrestled from Richie's hands - his opponent was strong, swift, and skilled. Richie, unfortunately, was not. He fumbled with his own limbs, managing to hit the intruder here and there - but they seemed like patters compared to the crushing blows his opponent delivered. And worse - the intruder seemed to have some sort of weapon, something with sharp edges - Richie couldn't make out what it was. But it hurt. That was all that mattered. It wasn't long before Richie fell, groaning, half-unconscious, to the floor. Before he did, though, he caught sight of his attacker for the first - and last - time - a surprisingly young man he _recognized_.

Bruce Wayne wiped the blood from his gloved knuckles and paused to catch his breath. His shoulder throbbed where one of Richie's bullets had caught him - it wasn't a small wound, but not a fatal one, either. The warm, sticky blood soaked his upper arm. _Damn it to hell_, thought Bruce as the wound gave an awful twinge. He glanced around - had he knocked out all the men? Bruce counted the fallen workers - eight of them. Four he had gotten just now - four he had beaten earlier. How many were there at the ship? Bruce's excellent memory responded - ten. So there were two left. But where...?

Voices were coming his way. Bruce quickly ducked behind some stacked crates, straining to hear. He had taken off his night-vision glasses, which had proved very useful - during fighting they could easily shatter and quite possibly, blind him. By the sounds of the footsteps, Bruce could tell that they were the remaining two men he had to take down before Falcone himself. _Breathe, relax.._. Bruce closed his eyes for a moment, letting his heart rate slow, ignoring the pain. When he opened them again, he was ready.

The last two weren't difficult to beat, but the shoulder did mar Bruce's normally extraordinary fighting skills. He took a few blows before he finally managed to knock both of them out. It was done. Now for Falcone.

Bruce made his way out of the containers, and back to the dock, where, as same as when he first arrived, Falcone's getaway car was parked. Bruce had wisely knocked out the driver, and thrown the key into the water, before going inside to dispatch the men. He could see Falcone sitting inside, with another machine gun in his hands, looking frightened. Flass was nowhere in sight. Those cowards.

Bruce slowly approached the car, flexing his hands. He crouched beside the vehicle, just low enough to be missed by the eyes of whoever that was inside. Then, summoning most of his remaining energy, Bruce gripped the side of the car, and vaulted himself up, so that he landed on the roof of the vehicle. His weight dented the metal - from inside, Falcone gave a shout -

"_Who the hell are you?"_

A loud shattering, and Falcone was in Bruce's hands. Bruce had punched right through the sunroof, lifting the mob boss out and up - now Falcone was struggling and shouting in his grip. A quick headbutt, and he was out cold. It was over.

Bruce finished by going back and tying up the unconscious men with the rope he had found nearby - Falcone, he strapped securely to a pole right outside the containers, beside his workers. Then he called Gordon with his lapel radio; the cop was probably somewhere close, waiting for Bruce's call.

Gordon and his men arrived at the scene fifteen minutes later. They stared, wide-eyed, at Bruce and his work - both covered in a considerable amount of grit and blood. Gordon came to Bruce, and said -

"Christ, did you do this _alone_?"

"Yeah." Bruce replied. "It wasn't too bad, just that they had machine guns..."

"You're shot." Gordon spotted Bruce's bloody shirt sleeve.

"It's not serious."

"You've got to be kidding me. We'll take you to a hospital, and these guys-" Gordon nodded to the tied-up workers and Falcone- "to jail."

"Go ahead with the criminals, but I'd rather go home. My butler'll patch me up." Bruce said, shaking his head. "I'll be fine."

"Whatever you say, Bruce." Gordon finally shrugged. He looked to his men. "Take them away." Then he turned back to Bruce. In a low voice, he spoke. "Listen, Bruce. I know, now, that you're skilled, very skilled. How you captured Falcone and his thugs, I don't know. But that's not important. You're a part of the Gotham Police Department. That means you're working _with_ us, not before us. I don't want you running around by yourself, taking matters into your own hands. Heck, this is your _second_ day. Most new recruits spend their second day being stuck inside the station, doing paperwork. Instead, you beat up Falcone and his thugs, alone, and have them arrested. You're lucky Commissioner Loeb doesn't know about this - he'd probably fire you for doing things by yourself. He doesn't like that, he likes being in control of his men. So please, for the time being, at least before you're promoted, keep low, follow orders, stick with me, your partner. Do you understand me?"

Bruce nodded slowly. "Yes, I do. Sorry for making a mess of things today, Jim."

"Don't kid yourself. I'm actually quite pleased with your work, it's just what the others would think." Gordon gave Bruce a smile. "Now get into the car. I'll drive you home."

* * *

Alfred was waiting for his master, watching the television and sipping at some excellent wine, when Bruce finally got home, battered, bruised, and bleeding. The news reported that Carmine Falcone had been captured and put into a temporary holding cell by an unnamed cop - Alfred had a sneaking suspicion that he knew that man very well.

"You're still up, Alfred?" Alfred involuntarily glanced at the clock. One thirty in the morning.

"Speak for yourself, Master Wayne." Alfred replied as Bruce collapsed onto the couch, eyes drooping. "I suppose you're not going to tell me about tonight's adventure?"

"How do you know?" Bruce looked up. Alfred went and sat beside him, helping him take off his dirty shirt. "I picked out the bullet..." Offered Bruce as Alfred inspected the wound. "...and it wasn't pleasant."

"The Gotham Cable News provided a rather vauge report on tonight's events... But I trust you must be the 'unnamed cop' that beat the bloody hell out of Falcone." Alfred mopped at the wound with a cloth, and went to fetch rubbing alchohol and some gauze. When he came back, Bruce opened his eyes, gave a weary smile, and quipped,

"Damn good television."

**Will be continued... Was the chapter all right? I sure do hope it was... XD Thanks for reading! Please review!**


	7. Chapter Six

It took a while to write this... Oh, and to **Fullmental Knight**: I'll think about your suggestion, thanks for letting me know about Jim in the comics. Since I haven't read a single Batman graphic novel, I had no idea of this, and Jim didn't seem very suited to fighting in the movies (with all due respect to Mr. Gary Oldman...), so yeah. I'll think about it.

And about the title of this fanfic - it's more of a temporary working title that just popped up into my head and led to the creation of Gotham Cop Bruce. Just so you all know - so far it doesn't have any connection to the story, I know. It'll probably be changed before I finish.

Anyways, enjoy the chapter, sorry for the long wait.

**Chapter Six**

**_"If someone's trying to kill you already, it means you're doing your job pretty well."_**

Bruce was twenty minutes late.

Rachel wasn't very pleased. It was their first date in _seven years_, for heaven's sake - and he was _late_? She shifted in her seat - the waiter was still standing beside her, also waiting. Rachel glanced at her watch again. Twenty-two minutes... She bit her tongue. Her stomach was rumbling.

After another ten minutes, Bruce finally arrived, out of breath and tousled but dressed in a formal suit. "Sorry if I'm late..."

"You're more than half an hour behind schedule, Bruce." Rachel said.

"Bandaging takes some time."

"Bandaging?"

"Yeah. Had some trouble with Falcone last night."

"So _you're_ the one who brought him in?" Rachel stared.

Bruce just shrugged. "I caught him, _Gordon_ brought him in." He spoke to the waiter, and said to Rachel - "I'll pay for everything. Champagne or red wine?"

"Champagne, please." Rachel replied, and looked at Bruce again. "Bruce, you... You're being _insane_... Don't you have any idea just how many thugs Falcone has, running around out there?"

"I do." Bruce casually sipped at his wine.

"Then what _are_ you thinking?" Rachel was exasperated.

He just shrugged. "I just want to clean up this rotting city - finish what my father started."

Rachel raised her eyebrows. "You expect to do that by yourself?"

"With a little help from the rest of the PD."

"Half those cops are scum, you know that."

"Yes, I do. But at least there's one good one... Jim Gordon. Be nice to him if you ever meet him."

"Okay..." Rachel paused. "I forgot to tell you, but today... Falcone..."

"Falcone what?" Suddenly Bruce was bright-eyed and alert, startling Rachel.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane took him to Arkham Asylum. For mental examination, he said. Crane's been doing the same thing with Falcone's thugs, but this... This is the mob boss himself, you know?"

"That _bastard_." Whispered Bruce. "Does that mean -"

"Yeah. Falcone's not in jail. He won't be, until Crane decides to bring him back. Which he won't. Not one of the thugs he took to the asylum came back - half of them had strange mental breakdowns."

"Not coincidences?" Asked Bruce.

"Not coincidences." Rachel confirmed.

"Damn it._ Damn it_." Bruce looked at Rachel. "What are you going to do?"

Rachel shrugged helpessly. "I don't know. I can't let him get away with this..."

"And your boss is less than willing."

"How did you know?"

"Most Gotham D.A.'s are pretty predictable." Bruce sat back with a sigh. "Jonathan Crane... Who is he?"

"A psychiatrist. Works in Arkham Asylum."

"I'll have to investigate him."

"Gotham cops don't go to the Narrows, Bruce."

Bruce looked Rachel in the eye with a determined air. "I'm no normal cop, Rachel. I think you already know that."

She did. And it worried her.

* * *

It was nearly eleven o'clock when Bruce began his trip for home. He hadn't realized how fast time could fly, especially when he was with Rachel - the two had lots to talk about, and the fancy meal hadn't exactly been a short one. Today was Sunday - Bruce had been freed from another gruelling session in the police station, thanks to his heroics on the day before. _Tomorrow_, thought Bruce, _more criminals to capture. More lives to save_.

Bruce hadn't realized just how dark the streets of Gotham could be. He also regretted not bringing his Lamborghini along. Even Rachel had brought her car... Bruce knew that darkness could be an ally, but it could also be a deadly enemy. Usually the latter. And it was damn dark. Wayne Manor was far from downtown Gotham - Rachel had offered to drive him home, but he politely declined. He felt that he had bothered her for too long already. It was true, but now he thought a little differently.

"Wayne! Bruce Wayne!" Someone was calling his name. It wasn't a friendly voice, Bruce immediately knew. He took a quick glance around - damn it. He was in a deserted alley. Damn it. This looked bad.

He turned, nevertheless. Oh, God. What now? His shoulder still hurt, he was incredibly tired, he had no weapons, it was so _dark_... Bruce could barely see the unfriendly face - a burly man with shaggy hair. The man was holding something, something that glinted in the night. A knife.

And then things just went from bad to worse. More figures appeared behind the first - two. One said - "Paul, you sure about this?"

"Shut up, Tim." Paul, the burly man, growled, and approached Bruce. Bruce stepped backward. _Damn it, damn it_. What to do? He was in a _suit_.

Paul suddenly lunged, before Bruce could think. He pivoted and felt the knife miss his torso by inches. Instinctively Bruce kicked Paul, hard, in the back, before he could regain his balance - he fell. Then the other two men - they came forward, brandishing clubs. Bruce took a heavy blow to his back, another to his shoulder - his bad shoulder. Fortunately Bruce had learned that pain wasn't hard to ignore. He ignored the throbbing, and lashed out with his fist, catching Tim in the jaw - the man went spinning into a brick wall and dropped to the ground. That left Paul and the other man.

The nameless man came at Bruce - with a quick kick to the head he was down and unconscious.

Paul. Goddamit. He was up again, with the knife - he looked angry. Anger could be fuel, but it could also be your downfall. Anger could be exploited... Paul ran at Bruce, knife brandished - he slashed down at his throat -

Bruce caught Paul's arm, not a moment to soon. A sudden stinging at his temple - Bruce realized that it must be the tip of the blade - it had cut into his skin. A small amount of blood began to dribble from the tiny cut. Bruce knew that the cut would get much bigger if he didn't think of something soon. Paul gave a roar of frustration, and pushed harder. Bruce felt his arm trembling from the pressure; the knife slid farther down the side of his face. Paul was strong, very strong.

Fortunately, Bruce was stronger.

Slowly he twisted Paul's arm to one side. Only too late the man realized that - his grip slackened. Bruce twisted hard and fast. Paul yelled and dropped the knife. This time Bruce made sure to kick the weapon away, far away, into the darkness. Paul began to run - and Bruce was going to run after him - when light flooded the alley.

"What the _hell_ is going on here?" Bruce recognized the voice.

The man carrying the flashlight came forward. Jim Gordon. Paul looked terrified, but before he could go any further, Gordon shot something at him - the _whoosh_ of air meant a sedative dart. Paul dropped on the spot.

"Bruce?" The light dazzled Bruce, making him screw up his eyes.

"Yeah."

"What's going on?"

"I honestly don't know." Shrugged Bruce as Gordon approached him.

"Are you okay? There's blood on your face."

"It's just a small cut." Bruce replied, wiping his cheek with his tuxedo sleeve. Warm stickiness came off on the fabric. "The more important thing is - what these guys wanted from me."

Gordon knelt beside a fallen Paul. He reached into his pocket, and drew out a worn leather wallet. "Paul Smith," he read. "A few bills, receipts, coins... Nothing useful."

"We're going to interrogate him and the others?"

"Probably."

"I have a feeling this has something to do with Falcone's trouble last night."

"Again, you're probably right."

"You're not very good at reassuring people, are you?"

Gordon shrugged. "If someone's trying to kill you already, it means you're doing your job pretty well."

"Thanks a lot."

"Do you want to come for the interrogation?" Gordon asked, reaching for his lapel radio.

Bruce took a glance at the fallen figures on the ground, and shrugged. "Sure."

* * *

The television was buzzing. Literally. Reporters and anchors, they were all screaming one name.

_Bruce Wayne_.

Alfred sat on the couch, watching the television, reading the evening paper, and waiting for Bruce to come home. The headline said: _Billionaire Bruce Wayne, Cop_? The article analyzed Bruce's return and Falcone's capture, as was the television right now. It seemed as though the news of Falcone and Bruce had spread now, all over Gotham. The reporters interviewed some Gothamites; most of them expressed their concern for Wayne, a few pronounced him insane. Alfred couldn't blame the latter. Even he had doubts about Bruce's new career. He knew that many cops died, went missing, or were greviously injured by criminals. The good ones, that is. And Bruce already was proving himself to be a good cop.

Suddenly Alfred was feeling a lot more worried. He glanced at the clock; already well over midnight. Perhaps he'd better call Master Wayne. Either something had come up, or reporters were bombarding Bruce with questions. Probably not the latter. There was no sign of Bruce on the television.

"Hello?"

"Alfred? Is that you?" Bruce answered the phone, much to Alfred's relief. There was backround noise - lots of voices, a few even yelling or shouting.

"Yes, sir. What-"

"I'll be home in a few minutes. I'm at the police station right now - the interrogation's finished-"

"What interrogation?"

"I'll explain when I get back. Oh, and get some thread ready - I think I might need stitches."

"Stitches?" Alfred gaped. "What for?"

"I said I'll explain. I'll be back in less than half an hour." Bruce hung up.

Alfred slowly set the phone down. Interrogation? Stitches? His head began to hurt. He wondered what sort of trouble Bruce had gotten into this time.

**Thanks for reading, reviews are greatly appreciated. Updates will be coming soon... XD**


	8. Chapter Seven

Another quick chapter. Sorry if nothing much happens in this one, I wanted to give Bruce and Jim a break. ;) More action scenes will be coming up, don't worry.

Thanks for the great reviews - as well as the alerts, favourites and hits! You guys rock my world!

Enjoy!

**Chatper Seven**

**_"Your new career seemed to have made an impression on the citizens of Gotham, Master Wayne."_**

Wayne Enterprises was in chaos.

Reporters and Gothamites were crammed in the street in front of it; more people were inside the mighty building. They just had to see him - Bruce Wayne.

For one thing, he was finally back, after seven years of absence. People whispered amongst themselves; a few young women were determinedly standing at the front of the crowd. One said -

"I've heard he became even more handsome than before..."

"How's that possible?" Another yelped, her cheeks going bright red.

Other more realistic Gothamites wanted to at least ask him one question about his astonishing decision. _What the hell were you thinking? Don't you know how dangerous your job is? Are you trying to mock Gotham City? Has the money gotten to your head?_ Or just plain _Why?_

And news had also gotten out that Bruce Wayne had bought back his entire company. Everyone knew that Bill Earle had made it go public weeks ago. People had seen an agitated Earle march into the Wayne building earlier this morning - he had come out looking even more furious. No reporter had managed to pry any answers out of him. Sources who worked in Wayne Enterprises confirmed that Bill Earle was fired, that the company's owner was now Bruce Wayne, and that Lucius Fox was the new CEO.

Bruce Wayne immediately regretted going to the company that day. The moment his Lamborghini pulled into the driveway he was bombarded by people asking him questions all at once, some taking pictures of him. When he opened the door of the car he was nearly pushed back inside. Bruce was rescued by some police officers, including Jim Gordon.

Gordon had to raise his voice considerably. "Having trouble?"

"Thanks, Jim," Bruce managed to say before he was swept away with a few other cops, into the safety of the elevator of the Enterprises. He didn't witness Jim Gordon being assaulted by reporters and interviewers who happened to see the short exchange between _the_ Bruce Wayne and Sergeant James Gordon. Gordon was very nearly terrified by the frenzied people attempting to get answers out of him - luckily enough a police car pulled up beside him, and he clambered inside, slamming the door shut in a reporter's face.

"Wayne's causing an uproar here, isn't he?" Commented the driver, a young cop.

Gordon took a glance around him. "He sure is."

* * *

By the end of Bruce's first meeting as the owner of Wayne Enterprises the crowd outside had depleted. Not entirely; there were still some hardcore reporters waiting to at least snap a few photos of Bruce when he came out.

Bruce didn't know that. He and Fox assumed they would be gone by lunchtime. They had been very, very wrong.

When they stepped outside they were dazzled by flashing cameras; yelling reporters deafened them. "I think - we might want to go - somewhere else!" Fox shouted over the noise.

Bruce couldn't hear him. "What - did - you - say?"

"I said, we might - want to go - somewhere else!"

"Yes, we should!" Bruce replied loudly. He and Fox pushed their way through the crowd and made their way to his Lamborghini - they got in quickly, shut the door, and drove off.

"What shall we eat today? Japanese? Chinese? Perhaps Korean?" Bruce asked his companion.

Fox shrugged. "Whichever's the cheapest?" He said with a smile.

Bruce laughed. "Korean, then."

xXxXxXx

Alfred was waiting for his master that afternoon, standing in front of the television set, with a newspaper in his hand. When Bruce came home he handed him the paper - where, predictably, Bruce Wayne's face was plastered all over the front page. Bruce groaned when he saw that an entire article was devoted to analyzing the stitches that ran down his temple - a reporter had somehow managed to snap a photo of it. Alfred remarked, gesturing towards the television and the paper -

"Your new career seemed to have made an impression on the citizens of Gotham, Master Wayne."

"But is it the impression I wanted to make?" Bruce asked, almost to himself. "Damn it, I wanted to keep things quiet. If so many people find out about this - things will get difficult..."

"With all due respect, sir, I don't think there's a soul in Gotham who _doesn't_ know about you or your return." Alfred gave Bruce a tray of tea and bread. Absently, the billionaire sipped from the cup, staring at the television, where an anchor was busily taking phone calls from viewers about - what else? Wayne.

"I think Mr. Wayne's made an admirable choice. Who says rich people can't act? He's put himself at risk to help clean up Gotham - and I respect that. I wish him luck on his new career." It was a young woman's voice.

A man was on the phone next. "I've always respected Thomas Wayne's plans for the city - but hasn't his son gone too far? A cop... Heck, half the cops in this city don't know how to shoot a gun properly..."

And so on.

It made Bruce's head hurt. He was wondering whether one caller, who remarked that Wayne should just drop the whole thing and get on with his life, was right. Already there were people trying to kill him, as the interrogation last night had revealed. Paul Smith and his friends were cowards. They had answers for nearly every one of their questions, except for one - _Who employed you? _That happened to be the most important of the cops' inquiries. Paul and his companions were to be kept in the holding cells until further notice. But one thing was clear. They had been trying to kill Bruce Wayne.

Bruce left for the police station after a small dinner. Gordon was waiting for him when he got there, as always.

"How's the cut?" He was referring to the stitches.

"Fine. The stitches come out tomorrow." Bruce replied. "Reporters managed to take pictures of it-"

"I know. It's all over the news." Gordon nodded. "Even my photo appeared in a paper... Was it _Gotham Times_? I can't remember. My son went beserk when he saw it. All thanks to you, Bruce." He added jokingly.

"You're welcome." Bruce said with a grin. "Patrol again tonight?"

"Yeah. By the Gotham Bank this time. Criminals are always trying to rob it - I'm sure you'd know."

"Of course." Bruce picked up his gauntlets, and something new - the night-vision goggles.

"What are those?" Gordon caught sight of them - Bruce quickly put them behind his back.

"Loeb would kill me if he finds out. I'll show you later."

Gordon couldn't answer to that. They both knew how harsh Loeb could be if he found out that his cops were doing things without his knowledge.

When they were safely in front of the bank, far away from Loeb and the rest of the cops, Bruce took out the glasses. Gordon stared at it, obviously knowing that it wouldn't be cheap.

"Night-vision glasses." Bruce told him. "The latest model from Wayne Enterprises' Applied Sciences department."

Gordon continued staring. "And... just how much does it cost?"

Bruce shrugged. "Two grand."

"_Two grand_?"

"Take a pair."

"What?"

"I said, take a pair. You need it. Heck, you can't even see a child in this kind of darkness - how are you going to catch clever criminals?"

"Bruce, this is _insane_... You can't just hand me something like this-"

"Why not?"

"It's _two grand_."

"And I got both pairs for free. Just take them, Jim. I own Wayne Enterprises, and it has an endless supply of gadgets like these. This - it's nothing. But it's pretty damn useful. I couldn't have caught Falcone without them."

Gordon gingerly took the glasses, examined them. "Wow."

"Used nanotechnology - a good friend of mine helped develop it."

After a moment of silence, Gordon said -

"What are you going to bring along next? A tank?"

Bruce smiled. "Now, _that's_ an idea."

**Thanks for reading. Will be continued!**


	9. Chapter Eight

**Okay: good news and bad news. The good news? We have an update. This chapter took a while to write; it's finally here. The bad news... I'm starting school in two days, which means my computer time is only on weekends. Expect week-long gaps between each chapter; I'm really sorry. For now, enjoy.**

**Chapter Eight**

**_"You're getting too popular for your own good, Bruce."_**

In less than a month Gordon and Bruce had both been promoted. Lieutenant Gordon; a jump to Sergeant for Bruce. The other cops couldn't complain. Sure, they were jealous. But seeing what Jim Gordon and Bruce Wayne could accomplish together was enough to shut most of them up.

The cut on Bruce's face healed into a vivid white scar. With his gauntlets and PD uniform on, it made him look positively intimidating. Lower officers didn't dare approach him openly; a glare sent most news reporters and photographers away. Gordon remarked that Bruce sometimes scared criminals enough to convince them to come quietly - Bruce replied with a simple

"I wish."

The number of criminals caught and put into jail increased by no less than half. Bruce and Gordon were incredibly intelligent, compared to the other policemen of Gotham. Even Loeb couldn't deny it. He didn't look too happy, promoting them, but he obviously knew their promotion was necessary, and well-deserved. Some time later, _Gotham Times_ published an article entitled **_Bruce Wayne, James Gordon: Best cops Gotham has ever seen?_**

Bruce spent some patrols teaching Gordon various skills - the use of the grappling gun, lessons in stealth and surprise... Gordon, in return, told him more about Gotham's law, the rules of the PD. The awkwardness that seperated the pair disappeared; they often relaxed at the bar after work together, and sometimes Bruce invited the Gordons over for dinner. Even the doubtful Barbara Gordon began to trust Bruce Wayne, who was friendly, understanding, and ever so charming. Heck, even the kids liked Bruce.

Rachel Dawes was increasingly drawn back to Bruce again, although she did her best not to show it. Her dates were no longer with all those nameless politicians and businessmen - she lost count how many times she had dinner with Bruce, now. Rachel found that relating to him was not as difficult as expected. Their jobs were entirely different - Rachel spent her days in the D.A.'s office, working on new cases, trying to bring back Falcone, while Bruce went out every night beating up criminals with Gordon. But their motives were the same - to make Gotham City a better place to live in. They discussed Gotham's problems, improvements, and people. Rachel found that Bruce gave her great ideas for her work; he was just as smart as he was seven years ago.

In fact, Bruce and Rachel had just finished another meal together, this time at a less expensive restaurant. They said goodbye and parted; Rachel for home and Bruce for work.

Patrol that evening passed without any event. Gordon suggested that they go to the bar - Bruce agreed, liking the idea of a peaceful drink after another long day.

There weren't many people in the bar - just a small group of men, about four of them, huddled around a single table, and the bartender. Bruce and Gordon chose a spot in the corner, and ordered themselves some whiskey. Taking a sip, Gordon said -

"How's the Falcone situation going?"

"Not very well," replied Bruce. "Rachel Dawes - the assistant D.A. - she's looking into it, working on it, but it's not working. That Jonathan Crane won't let the man go, apparently. For - what? Experimental purposes or something, I think she told me."

"Experimental purposes." Jim put down his glass. "Falcone isn't a lab rat - he's a goddammed mob boss. What the hell is that psychiatrist thinking?"

"I have no idea." Bruce shrugged, "But it can't be good. Crane - a dozen men with no previous pyschological problems went mad in his asylum. Completely insane, Rachel told me."

"Something's not right."

"Of course not. Crane needs to be investigated, but we've been too busy, haven't we?"

"Yeah. The criminals - they've died down a little. I think we could check out Crane and the asylum soon."

Bruce nodded in reply and took a gulp from his glass. Just then, the group of men that had been in the bar earlier moved towards Bruce and Jim. One stationed himself in front of the pair, and glared down at them.

"Wayne and Gordon, right?"

"What now?" Bruce looked up at the man - strangely, he looked familiar. Where had he seen him before?

Jim put his hand on Bruce's arm. "Bruce..."

"You think the billionaire can keep you safe?" The man cracked his knuckles; Bruce and Jim didn't flinch. They had already seen too much to be intimidated by this small act.

"Of course I do. You don't know Bruce Wayne, do you?" Jim found his anger rising at this sudden and very random assault in the middle of his otherwise nice evening.

"All I know," the man said, putting both his hands on the table, "is that Wayne is a pipsqueak, a coward, and a bloody idiot, just like his father before him-"

In a flash, Bruce was standing, pale with rage, one hand gripping the collar of the man - "Don't you dare. Talk about my father. Like that." He seethed, completly oblivious of the other three men moving towards him.

Jim wondered whether he should threaten to arrest the men, but he figured that it wouldn't do any good. Before he knew it the man had thrown a punch at Bruce - or was it the other way around? - and an all-out bar fight had begun.

"Bruce! Stop it!" His shouts were all in vain. He had never seen Bruce this angry before. Bruce was holding his opponent by the collar, against the wall, his other hand balled up into a fist - Jim knew that Bruce was capable of doing some major damage with a single punch. Heck, he couldn't let his partner be arrested by his own men!

Seeing no other solution, Jim ran forward and caught Bruce's arm as it shot forward. His head snapped sideways; he saw Jim beside him, and stopped, breathing hard.

"Let's go." Jim said.

Bruce looked at the man he was holding; after a moment of tense silence he threw him to the ground, set some coins down on the counter, and stormed out the door. Jim took a glance back and followed him.

It was raining. Bruce stood very still, already soaked. Jim uncertainly went to his side.

"Jim." He said abruptly.

"Yeah?"

"Do you remember my parents at all?"

Jim hesitated. "Yeah, I do."

"And?"

"They... Well, your father... He did good to Gotham. He tried to clean up the city - one of the first men who actually did."

Bruce remained silent, the rain dripping down his hair and face. It was impossible to read any emotion in his hardened features.

And then he suddenly staggered backwards with a choked gasp. The man he had fought in the bar - he was back, with his arm wrapped around Bruce's throat. Jim rushed forward, but there was nothing he could do. A grunt; Bruce had flipped the man over his back, slamming him to the muddy ground, hard.

The man didn't move.

Jim and Bruce stood over him, and after a moment of silence, Bruce said,

"We can arrest him, can't we?"

Jim reached into his pocket and took out the handcuffs he always carried with him. "We sure can."

"I have to say..." Bruce paused. "What the _hell_ was that all about?"

"Beats me," Jim replied, cuffing the unconscious man. "beats me."

"Another assassination attempt?"

Jim reached for his lapel radio. "Maybe. You're getting too popular for your own good, Bruce."

* * *

"Crane." Bruce and Jim said in unision.

"What?" Loeb looked at the pair.

"Dr. Jonathan Crane. He runs Arkham Asylum." Jim replied.

"So you're suggesting that he sent this man to kill Wayne?" Loeb said incredulously.

Bruce shrugged in reply. "Or not. We can't be sure, but there's some suspicious business going on in the Narrows. Falcone's there, if you haven't forgotten."

"I haven't, Sergeant." Loeb looked back into the interrogation room. "But that's clearly a ridiculous notion."

"Do you have any other ideas, Commissioner?" Bruce sat back and crossed his arms.

Loeb just shook his head and muttered something. "Well, we'll give this man some jail time for his unprovoked assault on you, Wayne... But keep those crazy ideas to yourself. You don't want to make an enemy out of Jonathan Crane." With that he left the room, leaving Bruce and Gordon alone, watching some cops take the man out from the interrogation room.

"You'd better get home, Bruce." Jim said after a while.

"Yeah, you're right." Bruce nodded, and stood. "See you tomorrow."

"Good night."

"You too."

Bruce drove home in a modest car, his mind racing faster than his vehicle. He knew he and Jim were probably right; how else would have the man gotten out of the asylum without any news of a breakout? What better way to kill a cop than to send a mentally disturbed, and very violent, man to do it for you? Bruce rubbed his throbbing temple with one hand. Things were getting complicated. But he knew he would have to pay a visit to Arkham Asylum pretty soon.

**Sorry for the long wait. I hope you liked this chapter.**


	10. Chapter Nine

Finally, an update. Sorry for taking ages. As you know, because of school... So yeah. Hope you enjoy; no notes necessary for this chapter.

**Chapter Nine**

_**It was quiet, too quiet. As if something was lying in wait for them...**_

Rachel met Bruce on the street after another gruelling day of work. It was a coinscidence, and Rachel was happy to see him after having to wrestle with her unwilling boss all day. They agreed to have coffee together.

"Rachel. Something's on your mind." Bruce said, taking a sip from his cup.

"Something's always on my mind." Rachel replied, eyeing the scar on Bruce's face. "But yeah, you're right, there's something more today."

"Which is?"

"Arkham Asylum."

Suddenly, Bruce's face hardened. "What?"

"I said, Arkham Asylum." Rachel avoided his eyes. "I'm going there tomorrow, after dinner."

"Don't, Rachel. Please, don't."

"I have to. I have to get Falcone back here, I have to find out what's going on inside that place. What Jonathan Crane's doing with all those thugs he brought in."

"Listen to me. That place - it's dangerous-"

"You don't know that."

"I can feel it." Bruce unconsciously rubbed his scar, a raised line on his temple. "Last week, a patient from Arkham nearly killed me and Jim. Or at least, tried to."

"What? What happened?"

Reluctantly, Bruce told her. Her eyes became wider and wider with every word - Bruce grimaced. He knew that even this wouldn't stop her from going to the asylum.

"You're still going to go, aren't you."

"You know me, Bruce."

"Just as stubborn as before, aren't you?" Bruce sighed. "Fine, then. I'm coming with you."

"No! I can handle this - I'm not a kid anymore." Rachel blazed at that.

"But Arkham's no party. I'm coming with you."

"You think I need an escort to visit that stinking place? _I'll be fine_."

"Damn it, Rachel, something's going on in there-"

"_That's why I'm going!_" Her voice was louder than she intended it to be. Some people looked in their direction; Rachel clenched her teeth and stood up. "Thanks for your time, Bruce. See you later." She stormed out the door, leaving Bruce alone, angry and afraid.

"Is... Is everything all right, Mr. Wayne?" The shopkeeper's hesitant voice reached him from a distance.

He just shook his head and went outside. Rachel was already gone; he didn't bother going after her. But Bruce did know that he had no choice tomorrow - he couldn't let Rachel walk into that nuthouse by herself. No - no way.

* * *

Jim Gordon was incredibly nervous.

Not only were he and Bruce going to the Narrows without permission from Commissioner Loeb, they were going alone. Alone. Just the two of them. Bruce insisted that they couldn't bring anyone along - it was just too risky. The other cops weren't as stealthy as Bruce and Jim; they would endanger whatever they had to do. What was it they had to do? Not even Bruce could answer that question.

They rode Bruce's car to the Narrows; Jim shivered as he saw some of the gaunt women and children on the streets. He hadn't been here before; but he'd heard plenty about it. Most of the talk wasn't pleasant. The Narrows - what a suitable place for Arkham Asylum to be.

Jim saw that Bruce had already slipped on his gauntlets; so he was expecting trouble. Not too surprising. He, too, had brought a loaded gun, along with his bulletproof vest - for heaven's sake, it was _Arkham Asylum._ _The_ Arkham. Where screams were said to howl all through the night...

"We're here." Bruce interrupted Jim's gruesome imaginings. "So is she."

There was another car parked in front of the forboding building - obviously Rachel Dawes'.

"So what's the plan? Rescue her and get out?"

"No, rescue her only if there's trouble, and get out with information." Bruce stepped out of the vehicle. "Pretty quiet right now, though."

"Yeah." Jim agreed, looking at the asylum. It was quiet, too quiet. As if something was lying in wait for them...

"Well, then. Let's go."

They made their way inside. No security; a surprise. Then again, maybe not. For who would actually try and get _into_ the asylum? _People like us,_ thought Jim. The halls were quiet - that was until they entered a much darker part of the building.

Screams. Yells. Even crying - God, the place deafened Jim's ears. Bruce stood motionless for a moment, his eyes scanning the corridor, looking for any sign of trouble. When he found none he turned to Jim once more.

"Shall we?"

The place chilled Jim to the bone. The pair stopped by a door and looked inside the window. Inside... Who else?

"Falcone." Jim muttered.

"What the hell?" Bruce pressed his nose to the glass; trying to get a better look at the mob boss. "What's he saying?"

"I dunno. Can't hear him from here." Jim looked at Bruce. "Should we go in?"

"Go in?" He shrugged. "He's tied up, anyways - sure." Bruce tried the door - locked. Obviously. To Jim's surprise Bruce took out something from his pocket, and - began to pick the lock. In an impossibly short time, there was a click - the door was open.

"You'd better not show that to the others," Jim commented. "Where did you learn how?"

"Here and there - when I was abroad." Bruce replied. "On second thought, maybe one of us should stand guard - "

"Good idea."

"I'll go in."

"But - "

"Give me a shout if you see something." Without waiting for his partner's reply Bruce pushed the door open, and went inside.

Jim figured that Bruce would have a plan if something did happen.

Again, he was wrong.

* * *

Falcone barely looked up when Bruce came in. He was strapped to his chair, eyes unfocused and afraid, muttering something under his breath.

_Scarecrow_.

Bruce frowned. There was nothing else in the room, absolutely nothing. He went forward, and waved his hand in front of Falcone's face - no reaction.

"What the hell..."

Suddenly, the mob boss started screaming. "No, no, no... Get them off! _Get them_ _off!_"

Nothing! Absolutely nothing!

Bruce felt fear slowly creep into his heart. He stepped back; perhaps he and Jim should just find Rachel and leave this hellhole...

Then he heard _Jim_ scream.

"Don't hurt him! Not our Jimmy! _Don't!_" Bruce ran outside. He was faced with Jim, who looked absolutely terrified, panaroid.

"What's going on - " Suddenly Jim was on top of him, beating at him with his fists - Bruce was starting to panic -

And then another voice. "What do we have here?" It was a mocking drawl; with a final desperation Bruce pushed the thrashing Jim off of him, and tried to see who the intruder was. Just a normal-looking, gangly young man - up to the neck, at least. His head was covered by what looked like a burlap sack...

_Scarecrow_.

"Need a little help, cop?" A _whoosh_ of gas - Bruce choked and coughed -

Suddenly he was enveloped by a huge, moving mass of darkness, screeching, fluttering -

Bruce couldn't help but shout out in fear. He doubled over, covering his head and ears - what was going on? Where had the creatures come from?

He heard his parents' screams, he heard the gunshot, Joe Chill's yell, then his own nine-year-old voice, sobbing - images assaulted his brain -

Somehow Bruce recognized the symptoms, from... Ra's al Ghul's monastery. He was hallucinating. He had to do something, he had to save himself, save Rachel, save Jim. _How? How?_

**Long wait, huh? I hope you'll like it. Reviews are greatly appreciated!**


	11. Chapter Ten

**_Finally, an update. I have no time for notes at the moment, I have to apologize. Enjoy the chapter._**

**Chapter Ten**

There were so many bats. So many of them. Bruce just couldn't ignore them; why did his parents' screams continue to ring in his ears? Damn it, damn it... Jim was thrashing away beside him, and that... Scarecrow? He was laughing his goddamned head off. It infuriated Bruce, despite the panic racking at his mind. He gave a roar of rage and fear, then kicked out at the psychiatrist - a satisfying yelp of pain told him he had hit him. Bruce staggered up to his feet - the world spun before his eyes -

_We have to get out of here_. He locked onto the thought, and tried to think. This was impossible. The creatures tore at his face and hair - he knew they weren't real, this was all going on inside his head - God, or was he just trying to convince himself of that?

_We have to get out of here_. Yes, but how? How? Bruce looked forward - was that a window? What floor were they on again? The second? There was no other choice. No way out. Bruce knew that both he and Jim needed help, fast. Who knows what kind of shit they had just inhaled?

Bruce grabbed Jim by the jacket, and dragged him up to his feet. The bats, the bats... Bruce squeezed his eyes shut, and blindly went for the window, hauling Jim along behind him, ignoring his partner's cries of "Let me go!" or "Get them off!". He hadn't gone far when a pain in his hand stopped him - to his shock, Jim had sunk his teeth into his flesh. Bruce grunted; seeing no other option, he delivered a quick blow to the back of Jim's head, knocking him out, cold, rendering him harmless.

"Sorry," muttered Bruce - the window was in front of him. Taking a deep breath, trying to shake the horrible images from his mind, he threw himself against the glass, clutching onto Jim's arm as tightly as he could - the window shattered easily.

A moment later, he and Jim were falling. Bruce prepared to have half his bones broken - instead, he felt something else go _crunch_. There was a bone-jarring crash - all the breath was knocked out of him. After a moment, he opened his eyes, and struggled up to a sitting position. He and Jim were on top of a car - a taxi. Groaning, Bruce rolled off of the vehicle, pulling Jim after him, then cringed when he thought he felt more bats assault him. He fell to his knees, desperate to escape this nightmare - with what little sense he had left, Bruce fumbled for his cell phone, then dailed number one - Alfred's voice answered almost right away.

"Yes?"

The bats, the bats... "Help... Narrows... Poison..."

"Master Wayne?"

His consciousness faded along with his parents' screams.

* * *

"_Daddy! Daddy!" _Little Jimmy's sobbing echoed in his ears.

He wanted to help him, save him, but he could not. No matter how fast he went, he couldn't reach Jimmy - it was as if he was running in the spot, on a treadmill.

"Jimmy!"

Jim realized that he was lying in his bed, his nice, soft, comfortable bed. Not desperately trying to get to his son, who was in some unknown danger. He sat up, attempting to get his bearings, only to give up when the room around him started to spin dizzingly. He groaned; suddenly a voice called his name.

"Jim?" It was Barbara.

"Barbara!" Jim said hoarsely, opening his eyes and sitting up again. "Barbara?"

She hugged him, nearly crushing him. When Jim got his breath back, he managed to gasp - "What happened?" His memory was fuzzy; he just remembered _going_ to Arkham, but nothing about coming out.

Barbara let go of him, pulled a chair to his bedside, and sat down. "What do you mean?"

"How did I get back home? When? How long has it been?"

"It's a long story." Barbara said. "One question at a time."

"Okay, then. How did I get home?"

Barbara clapsed her hands. "Well..."

Then Jim remembered. "Bruce! Bruce Wayne... Where's Bruce?" Suddenly he was horrified; that night's events came rushing back to him. "What happened to him?"

"Mr. Pennyworth - he got a call from Mr. Wayne." Barbara's story made Jim's eyes grow wider and wider by the second. In the next five minutes, Jim was able to summarize the following: Alfred found both Bruce and himself among the shattered ruins of a taxi, poisoned and unconscious; he brought both of them to Wayne Manor. After delivering Jim back to his house, Alfred had called Lucius Fox, the CEO of Wayne Enterprises, to create an antidote to whatever they had inhaled. He succeeded, fortunately for Bruce and Jim. Two days later, both men were nearly back to normal - other than a sprained wrist for Jim and a twisted ankle for Bruce. They both had their equal share of bruises from their fall onto the car, according to Barbara.

Now Jim was desperate to talk to Bruce, but Barbara forced him back into bed. "You need your rest. Mr. Fox - he said that the effects of the poison may linger on for a few more hours. You can call Wayne Manor tomorrow."

"But -"

"James." Jim winced. Barbara rarely called him that. And he hated it. "Listen to me, will you? It was hard enough covering up for you in front of the kids -"

Jim sighed. "_All right_. Whatever you say." He lay back in bed, suddenly realizing that he was feeling more drowsy than he had previously thought. _Sleep is good_... Before he knew it Jim was dreaming again.

* * *

Commissioner Loeb was annoyed.

Not only had Gordon and that Wayne just vanished without permission, they had vanished to Arkham Asylum. That hellhole? Why the heck would they go there? And worse, they hadn't come back. They had gone two days ago; no news of them had reached his ears yet. Two of his best cops, just gone! To Arkham! Loeb groaned and rubbed his temples. Could things get any worse?

"Officer Jones! What are you doing?" Loeb barked into his lapel radio.

The young man was talking very fast. "Commissioner - They're back - Lieutenant Gordon and Sergeant Wayne -"

"What?" Loeb jumped out of his seat. "Where - where are they? Tell them both to report to my office right away!"

"Yessir," Officer Jones gave a hasty reply.

Wayne and Gordon came less than five minutes later. Loeb greeted them with a furious shout. "What the hell were you two thinking? _Arkham_ -"

Wayne gave a weary reply. "An assistant D.A.'s life was in danger, Commissioner."

Loeb was caught off guard. "Who?"

"Rachel Dawes, sir." Gordon said.

Now that Loeb looked at both of them more closely he saw that neither men seemed very well. Pale, sickly - what happened? It was exactly what he asked them.

"Long story." Was all Wayne said. After a moment of uncomfortable silence, he added, "So, Commissioner. Any new jobs for us?"

Loeb had to give a grim smile at that. "Oh, you have no idea. Sergeant."

**I'll try and update as often as possible. Hope you enjoyed the chapter, reviews will be appreciated!**


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